


A Gift

by emmawicked



Series: POTO Secret Santa [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Christine has a little crush on her angel, Christmas, F/F, Fluff, Leroux-based, This is before Christine knows Erik(a) isn't an angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:25:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmawicked/pseuds/emmawicked
Summary: Christine doesn't know if angels celebrate Christmas, but she figures hers deserves a present anyway.





	A Gift

**Author's Note:**

> A gift from @misschristinedaae from tumblr, Merry Christmas

It’s snowing that morning when Christine wakes up. The floorboards are cool beneath her feet and she shivers. Wrapping her duvet around her shoulders, she stokes the smoldering fire back into a blaze. Christine curls up on her bed as the warmth starts to seep back into her bedroom. After a moment, she sticks her foot out of her bundle of blankets. It’s no longer freezing, Hallelujah. Slipping out of her blankets, she gets dressed. 

She dallies by her window when she gets ready, staring out into the blank white sheet that covers Paris. The sky is a beautiful charcoal, the lights of the city contrasting against the darkness. She closes her eyes and pretends she’s Queen of the Ice and Snow and can control the frost that’s steadily creeping along her window pane. An icy draft blows out of the cracks around her window, blowing her curls gently out of her face. It’s too early for anyone besides her to be up and she enjoys the soft quiet in the air. 

Christine hums a piece from _Romeo et Juliette_ softly to herself as she pads down the stairs. Madame Valerius is still asleep when Christine leaves the house after lacing up her winter boots; she closes the front door quietly in an effort not to wake her. Shivering, Christine wraps her coat tightly around her and starts the short walk to the opera house. The snow crunches underneath her feet. The brisk winter air quickens her step and she makes it to the opera house in a record 8 minutes. By the time she arrives, the sun is just barely peeking over the horizon line. 

“Christine!” Meg calls when she spots her. Her black hair is slicked neatly into a top knot. Christine’s face breaks into a chapped smile.

“Meg! It’s so nice to see you; how is your mother?” Christine asks with a radiant smile on her face. 

“Oh you know, stubborn as always,” she laughs, “She thinks the fever will go away if she wills it strong enough.” 

Christine smiles. “Tell her I wish her well,” she requests. Meg promises with a smile and they part as she races for the chorus practice chamber. 

“Bonjour, Monsieur!” Christine calls to M. Gabriel. His mustache twitches and he waves a hasty greeting to her. He taps his conductor’s wand to the podium and everyone steps in line. Smiling, Christine begins to sing with the rest of the group. 

***

Christine is exhausted by the time she makes it up to the old dressing room. A few months ago, she would’ve wanted nothing more than to leave to go straight to bed. But now she has her angel. A small spark of excitement lit her soul, propelling her up the long staircase and into the small, slightly dusty room. 

“Angel?” She whispers, “Are you here?” 

“Of course, Christine,” a feminine voice answers from above, “I’m always here.” Her voice is smooth like honey and washes over Christine. She relaxes and smiles blissfully up at the ceiling. “Are you ready for your lesson?” 

“Yes, Angel,” Christine replies. 

“Start with Carmen’s aria on three…” 

***

Her angel is a strict teacher, only giving compliments when truly deserved. That’s why Christine blushes when her angel says she sang well tonight. 

“Thank you, Angel,” Christine says, her cheeks pink, “It is all due to you.” 

“Not all to me, child,” She says, “I merely train you. Soon you will be ready.”

Christine’s eyebrows draw together. “Ready for what?” She asks but her angel doesn’t answer. 

“Time will tell, my sweet; time will tell.” Christine can tell she will not get anything further out of her angel. 

“I won’t see you until Christmas, Angel,” Christine says, changing the subject, “Mamma Valerius says we’re going to visit her family to the North.” 

There is a pause. “And when, pray tell, will you be back?” Her angel requests. Her voice is laced with a tinge of disappointment. Christine cringes at her tone; she hates disappointing her angel. 

“Christmas Eve,” she answers, “I’ll spend twice the time with you that eve, I swear!” Her voice is bright in her want to please. 

“That is alright, Christine,” her angel answers, “Spend that time with friends. Even the most talented students deserve a day of rest.”

Christine feels slightly hurt at the words. “I don’t want to spend time with friends, though; I like spending time with you.” She’s slightly afraid her impudence will cause her angel to leave- and she thinks, for a moment, it did. But then She answers.

“I am flattered, my dear,” She says, “I will, of course, acquiesce to your request if that is what you truly desire.” 

“It is,” Christine promises and her face brightens. 

“I should not keep you from your walk home, it is dark and cold out,” her angel calls, “I will see you Christmas Eve.” 

Christine smiles. “Goodbye angel.” 

“Farewell Christine.” 

***

Christine thinks that she should feel more ashamed than she does about how much time she spends thinking of her angel than spending time with family during their little vacation. While she plays with little Annalise, she’s counting down the minutes until she gets back. 

“Christine, love,” Mamma Valerius says one night while knitting a baby sweater by the fireside, “Who are you giving gifts to for Christmas?”

“Well you, Mamma,” Christine laughs, “But I don’t know who else.” 

“Not La Sorelli?” Christine shakes her head for her next couple as suggestions as well. “I worry about you, my girl; you don’t have anyone special?” 

Christine thinks for a moment. _Well,_ she wonders, _Does an angel count?_ What would one even get an angel for Christmas? They can’t physically pick something up so that’s out of the question. _But a gift can be something else…_ Christine thinks. An image of her father’s violin pops up in her head. _Oh._

“I can see the wheels turning in your head, Christine,” Mamma Valerius says, “Who is it? Not a suitor, I hope.” Warm amusement covers her voice like honey. 

“No,” Christine says, laughing, “Not a suitor. I’ll warn you when that happens, I promise.” Mamma Valerius smiles in satisfaction. 

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair, “I know if you won’t tell me, I know it’s for a good reason.” 

Christine smiles. “It is,” she says. “Also, do you happen to know where Papa’s violin ended up?”

***

Her father’s violin is still in their townhouse, but luckily one of Mamma Valerius’s cousins happened to have an old one lying around.

“Here you go,” he says, handing the worn instrument over to her careful hands, “Just be careful and give it back when you’re done.”

Christine smiles. “I will be,” she promises as she plucks the A string. _Huh_. Still in tune. 

She spends the next hour playing random melodies and whatever pops into her head. She spends the next drawing ledger lines. She goes to bed dreaming about music and by the time the week is over, she has a piece. 

***

“Hello Christine,” The Voice says, “It’s good to see you again, my dear.” 

“I missed you, angel,” Christine replies and then winces. “I know I should have been spending time with family, but I found an old violin…” She trails off aimlessly. 

“It is forgiven, child,” She says, “It is a minor sin at most, to be engrossed in something as pure as creating music.” 

Christine brightens. “I actually have a gift for you, angel- for Christmas.” 

“Oh,” She asks, “What is this?” She sounds surprised for an all-knowing angel. _Surely_ , Christine thinks, _She knew of this?_ Perhaps not. 

“I have to show you.” Christine takes out her father’s violin from its case. It used to smell like the faintest bit of his aftershave, but now it just smells like varnish and rosin. Arranging her hair to the side, she positions the bow and starts to play her composition. 

It’s not very long, but Christine poured a week’s worth of sleepless nights into it and she thinks its good. Decent enough- hopefully- for an angel of music. _Her_ angel of music. 

There’s silence when she finishes, not even a whisper to stir the air. Christine twitches, nervous. _Did She hate it?_ Christine wonders, worried. _Maybe it_ is _presumptuous to perform a mediocre composition for a master…_

“T- That was beautiful, Christine,” The Voice finally says, sounding choked up like she was… _crying_. Christine almost beings to weep as well at the thought that she made an angel cry for her music. “Thank you.” 

Christine smiles wider than is possible. “I composed it for you, Angel,” she says, preening from praise. 

“Oh- oh Christine!” She cries, “Thank you. Thank you.” The Voice devolves into broken cries and exhalations before struggling to compose herself. “This is a beautiful gift, Christine; I will cherish it in my memories forevermore.” 

Christine blushes. “Thank you, Angel,” she says.

“And I believe I have a gift for you,” She says, her voice nervous, “I was not planning to show you this yet, but you have proved that you’re ready.” Momentarily, Christine wonders what could make an Angel nervous before she responds. 

“Yes Angel?” Christine asks, “What is it? I can handle it, I promise.” 

There is a hesitation before the silence is shattered by the creaking of hinges. The mirror in front of her drifts open and Christine jumps. There’s a woman inside with a bone white mask and long silky hair. 

“Hello, Christine,” the woman greets. 

Christine’s heart jumps. 

“Angel?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing & wanna talk to me follow my tumblr @emmawicked


End file.
